


Don't Worry, Be Happy

by wearethewitches



Series: Jukebox Hero; Centaurian!Peter Quill/Prince of Sakaar AU [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Centaurian Peter Quill, Centaurians, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kid Peter Quill, Parent Yondu Udonta, Past Torture, Royalty, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: There's an intruder on the Eclector./ -or, the au where Peter Quill was raised on Sakaar; (aka, the Centurian!Peter/Sakaarian Prince AU)





	Don't Worry, Be Happy

**Author's Note:**

> circa. 1988

There’s an intruder in the vents.

Problem is, the half dozen Ravagers that can actually _fit_ inside the vents are either aren’t responding or Kraglin – and there’s no way on Niflheim is Yondu sending in _Kraglin_. The kid isn’t even a teenager in his own culture, let alone an adult. _Just a kid,_ he thinks worriedly, keeping an eye on his protégé. The rest of the crew are antsy, all huddled in the mess, except for the sets of pairs in the cockpit and security hub, ready to defend the _Eclector_ from hijackers and tell Yondu if they see anything, respectively.

“Captain,” Roark mutters, itching at a healing scar on his scaled orange face, “we’re sitting ducks here.”

“We’re also down two thirds of the crew,” Yondu growls back, baring his teeth. Roark looks away, allowing Yondu to clear his face of expression. Only a paltry sixty-five crewmembers are hanging around in the mess, not including Yondu. Seventy crew, total, are left. The rest are missing – or rather, the rest, minus the five silent in the vents searching for their intruder, are tied up and unconscious in the cargo-bay.

They know that because their intruder set up a video-feed for them to watch, re-rigging one of their own damn cameras.

Movement on the big screen – usually used for movie nights or the presentation of safety procedures Yondu makes everyone watch again every few months, now showing the cargo-bay feed – catches his attention and he looks, to see their intruder floating three of their vent-crawlers into the pile of unconscious crew. The floating happens because of something blue and strange – almost like the red light Yondu’s yaka arrow creates, but far wider and…gelatinous, visually at least.

Yondu wishes he could see them on the feed. Then, maybe, he could stick his yaka arrow where it hurt and leave the damn mess hall, to get his revenge on the little bastard who _dared_ infiltrate his ship and kidnap his crew.

 _Does it say something about your crew?_ His mother’s voice shifts through his head like some kind of extra conscience. Yondu doesn’t like thinking that way, though – his crew are decent enough and most of them were fresh to the job when he picked them up. Yondu _knows_ he press-ganged a few into joining – though, to be fair, he needed people who actually knew what the hell they were doing. Dozens of engineers, war veterans, chefs and trained medics – people who could look after the ship and other crewmembers while they made money.

 _We’ve even got a couple of doctors, now,_ Yondu thinks, eyes locked on the projection. He can pinpoint the near dozen of them in the group of unconscious crew – vulnerable targets and worse, _valuable_ targets. The people Yondu has in the mess hall with him are the worms of the galaxy, who were able to slip in to join him or were lucky enough to be in a group when the alarm sounded. _They must have got my crew manifest. It can’t be a coincidence that crew I’d actually pay ransom for are lumped in with the other captives._

On his wrist, his communicator crackles. “ _Captain, it’s Brite, I’ve got eyes on the intruder. Lubeeti is on the other side of the cargo-bay, by the door controls-_ ”

Yondu lifts it slightly, so it can pick up his voice as he presses a button. “Brite, shut your pie-hole and don’t give away your locations. What’s the intruder like? What are they packing?”

He can see Lubeeti, now he knows where to look – his antenna are glowing softly through a grate and Yondu wonders if the being realises it, because if the intruder sees, it won’t take long for them to be found. Brite replies, her voice hush, but clear.

“ _They’ve got a big hood on and cloak, but I can see a uniform – fancy-like and dark blue with a silver sash. Their boots are good and they’ve got boosters on the sides. That light blue power comes from them, though, Captain and it’s fucking weird, but I think it drains them. I can hear their breathing get louder, puffing. They only use it to put the crew into the view of a camera. I think they know not to go-_ ”

Brite is cut off suddenly and a second later, there are two shoots of blue light, one throwing Brite into the pile of unconscious crew. The other rushes over to where Lubeeti cowers, removing the grate and pulling Lubeeti over to join Brite at the same time. Yondu curses, echoed by his crew, before a smoke-grenade is thrown to where the two vent-crawlers are trying to get to their feet. Almost immediately, they drop, though Brite takes a few seconds longer.

“Captain, what do we do?” Kraglin questions and it’s those eyes that get him – so knowing and lacking in childish naivete, but still so _innocent_ and _young_. Yondu tries to remember how old he is, down to the year – hard, seeing as Xandarians live for up to four hundred, but Yondu thinks he’s thirty, or maybe twenty-seven. Somewhere between there. He’ll be eighty before he’s an adult.

 _Shit_ , Yondu thinks, feeling the determination to get Kraglin out of this alive settling in his bones. He grimaces, before going over to the wall beside the deadlocked mess door. Tapping the panel, he opens up the ship-wide comm. with his captains code.

“This is Yondu Udonta, Captain of the Eclector and the Yondu Ravager Clan,” he starts. “Parlay, whoever the fuck you are or, outside the mess, fucking parlay – with you or whoever’s in charge, I don’t care. There’s a panel by every main door. Access it and give me your reply.” He opens a connection between the cargo bay and the mess, waiting.

There’s a long wait. Yondu grits his teeth, fidgeting, slowly getting more and more angry at the lack of reply.

“Maybe they don’t know what parlay is,” Kraglin offers.

Yondu snarls at the boy, before something falls into the middle of the mess, trailing white smoke. A yell goes up as it clatters to the ground, quickly being followed by more and more. Ravagers drop, left, right and centre, coughing and falling unconscious.

Yondu realises why the intruder isn’t replying to his quest for parlay – they’re breaking the Ravager Code and ignoring it, attacking instead. Pinpointing the vent high in the ceiling that the gas grenades are coming from, Yondu pushes his collar over his mouth and nose, knowing as soon as he gets a whiff, his four lungs are going to take in a lot more of that smoke than most of the crew.

 _There_ , he finds it, whistling sharply, arrow shooting up out of its holster as Kraglin drops in front of him, flying towards the ceiling. Unfortunately for Yondu, that’s when the smoke reaches him, as well – and the arrow’s red glimmer fades as his eyes roll back in his head, falling unconscious immediately.

He wakes up tied to a chair. He can feel his yaka arrow nearby, being handled by strange hands – but unlike usual, it isn’t invasive or making a creepy feeling crawl up his back. Yaka metal is rare, one of the few remnants of his home planet. Yondu can remember seeing Centauri VI blow up from the clear belly of the Badoon ship, full of other captured and traded Centaurians – other future slaves – and he can remember when Stakar earned his loyalty, standing firm in the face of Yondu using the gift he’d just been given to threaten the Ravager Chief’s life.

Yaka metal – magic metal, Krugarr used to call it. Yondu’s arrow bonded to him, made an even easier weapon to handle when he got his artificial tahlei. Yet another thing to be thankful to Stakar for – both a life-saving bone crest, protecting the thin, natural dip into his skull, usually invisible with a tahlei to hide it and a weapon that connected Yondu to his lost culture and civilisation.

Usually, when people touch his arrow, Yondu kills them – it’s a part of him, after all, attached to his psyche. But this touch, this intruder holding his arrow…Yondu wants to say it feels like home, but he can barely remember what _home_ was, before the Ravagers.

Yondu looks over to where the intruder- no, _no, the **invader**_ is sitting on a table, legs crossed as they twirl his yaka arrow. Like Brite said, they’re wearing a loose cloak that hides their head and some form of head fin – but does little to hide the rest of them. Their clothes don’t scream _uniform_ , however, not like Brite said. Tailored, meant to scream control and power, but the intruder is small.

In Yondu’s mind, it’s hard for beings as small as the invader to seem _powerful_ , even with fancy clothes. _Maybe add a big-ass gun,_ Yondu thinks, wiggling his tongue inside his mouth, trying to get rid of the awful aftertaste of the knock-out gas.

“Hello,” they greet, sounding very excited but immediately confusing to Yondu. “I took out all your crew!”

Yondu narrows his eyes, pushing his confusion away – _that voice, that voice is not right_ – as he looks around the mess hall. Like in the cargo-bay, they’re tied up in a pile, hauled over to the far side of the room, some awake and muttering to themselves but some still asleep. _Lazy arses, I woke up so they should have by now,_ Yondu thinks with quiet anger, before he tests his bonds.

The ropes are pitifully easy to snap and he stands, whistling his arrow to hover in front of the invaders’ chest. They gasp and the almost palpable happiness fades. Yondu stomps over, pushing the hood back, only to recoil at the sight of bright blue skin and a bright red, half-grown tahlei. Yondu fixates on it, staring at the tahlei which is still translucent in the light and floppy instead of hardened, reactive tissue.

“Hello,” the young Centaurian says again, this time with less enthusiasm. “I was wondering if I could join your crew.”

Yondu looks away from the child’s tahlei, feeling self-conscious and ashamed of the low, red bar protecting his skull. The child is that – a child, but it’s with looking at their face that Yondu sees the differences: their hair _exists_ – dark brown and long, pulled back in two separate braids on either side of their tahlei, loose on their scalp but blonde at the roots – and their eyes are dark green rather than red. The hesitant smile they give shows off a blue tongue but bright white teeth, some a little crooked but far from the sharp, jagged razors of Centaurians.

Abruptly, Yondu grabs the child’s chin, lifting their head and looking at them closely, sniffing deeply and feeling his surface emotions, so prevalent and _strong_. Everything in him is screaming that they’re _connected_ , but Yondu ignores it, terrified of what that means.

“Who are you?” he snaps, burning to know.

“I’m the Prince of Sakaar, great nephew to the Grandmaster,” he says, puffing up a little, losing some of his nerves as he grins properly. “Second-youngest of the Ogord Ravager Clan, Star-Lord of Midgard and son of Countess Quill.”

“…you _what_ , boy?” Yondu barks, hand coming away from his chin. Stepping back, he drags the boy off the table, pulling off his cloak to reveal his ‘uniform’. Brite was right about one thing, at least.

His sash really _is_ silver.

The boys outfit is ridiculous though. The cobalt trousers and jacket are fine – they look fancy, but durable, black buttons basically under his arm with how far over they are and the trousers are tucked into sturdy, worn boots that have the noted boosters on the side, as well as two small blasters. The problems are the accessories – the finely-woven silver strand sash has the familiar crest of Grandmaster Takaar on the shoulder, the other shoulder with an overly-poncy shoulder-pad in white, with more woven silver hanging off it with rubies as tassels on the end.

 _What can you expect from a prince, though?_ Yondu thinks, but can’t sneer because he hadn’t even realised the Grandmaster had family other than Stakar and their lot – and Takaar was only ever close to Stakar and Martinex, anyway.

But the boy said _Ogord Ravager Clan_ and that means Aleta, not Stakar. This prince knows _Aleta_ , well enough to be in her Clan…and _second-youngest? What is he on about?_

Yondu knows he hasn’t really kept much contact, but to be fair, they’d been all pressuring him to go visit-

The yaka arrow dips in the air.

_…Sakaar. Those **sons of bitches**._

“What’s your _name_ , boy?” Yondu demands, glaring at him, just as something else occurs to him – _the only ‘Quill’ that could have fathered my child is from Terra. Midgard. Aw, shit. Damn it, Meri._

“Peter Quill, but that’s pretty informal – but you’re also my _dad_ , so I suppose you could call me that,” he grins and Yondu doesn’t even think before reaching forwards, tweaking the end of his tahlei like his own papa used to do before the Badoon invaded. Peter’s smugness disappears as he squeaks, throat easily producing the higher, inaudible pitches Centaurians can reach.

“Stop being so smug, little prince,” he warns. “I doubt your mama would be happy. Where even is Meri? Why’d she let you seek me out? I had no clue you’d come here and knock out all me crew!”

“I wanted to prove myself,” Peter says, but he shrinks slightly, looking slightly guilty. “I was with Nana ‘Leta and her crew, with my sister, Adaline. My mom was with us as well, but she went on a little holiday with Mama Val for ‘alone time’ and I _might_ have hitched a lift with Grandda Stakar when he came to say hi to Nana ‘Leta.”

“You _might_ have hitched a lift with Stakar Ogord?” Yondu glares harder, arrow abruptly returning to his holster. “Sister?”

“Yeah, Addy’s cool – mom and Val adopted her when she came through the Devil’s Anus.”

Yondu chokes. “The Devil’s _what_ , now, boy?”

“The Devil’s Anus,” Peter repeats, keeping a straight face for zero point five seconds. “It’s a giant wormhole. Sakaar’s a junk planet full of open plugholes and the Devil’s Anus is the biggest, baddest one of them all. She’s got powers like me.”

“A wormhole has powers?” Yondu questions, before abruptly shaking his head, interrupting Peter’s answer. “No. Stop. Later. Stakar. You stowed away?”

“No, I asked first, obviously – last time I stowed away, I got banned from visiting him for an entire year. It was the worst, up until Nana ‘Leta came and told mom we should get some miles as ship-sweeps. We’re more like vent-crawlers though and mini-commanders. It’s cool and I meant Adaline, not the Devil’s Anus, when I said she had powers, by the way.”

“Right,” Yondu replies distantly. “So, you asked Stakar, he said yes, then…”

“Then, I switched ships when you all came for the Table Meeting,” Peter finishes and _that_ is what makes Yondu horrified.

“But the Table Meeting was six cycles ago, boy! Half a Terran year! Your mama’s got to be sick with worry over you!”

“I send her messages – it’s alright, she already shouted at me,” Peter says sheepishly. “I was doing recon. I sent her some videos I took of you and Kraglin and she lightened up a lot about me meeting you.”

“Videos of Kraglin-” Yondu stops himself, glancing at the crew tied up in the corner. A couple are glancing at Kraglin, who’s near the edge and involuntarily freezes under the looks. _The worms of the galaxy_ , Yondu repeats in his head, wondering whether it’d be a good idea to show favouritism right now.

“Yeah. I like him. He’s cool.” Peter says, before stepping forwards, reaching into his personal space. Yondu jerks out of the way before he can grab his yaka arrow. “I want to see it.”

“Then _ask_ , son,” Yondu narrows his eyes. “You can’t go ‘round grabbing things you don’t understand.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Yondu replies, before snatching at his sons tahlei again, unable to resist the urge. The way he presses – _where_ he presses – makes Peter wriggle and make whiny whistles. Yondu changes his grip after he’s satisfied, turning and pulling him towards the tied-up crew. He stops wriggling at the change, but he still whines, grumbling with his Terran vocals.

“Fellow Ravagers, meet my son, Peter. We’re going to keep him and try not to eat him for being a little shit. Kraglin, you’ll be donating some clothes to get fitted for him – he’s not wearing this poncy get-up if I have any say in it.”

Peter jerks in his grip, twisting his tahlei enough – _it’s so malleable, **fuck** , he’s young_ – that he can look up at Yondu with wide eyes.

“I get to stay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Yondu says casually. “I’m not sure what you did with Aleta and Stakar, but here, you’ll be put to work. You up for getting those soft hands all covered in callouses.”

“They’re not soft, but sure! Please!”

“First lesson,” Yondu shakes Peter’s tahlei a little for emphasis, “don’t say please. Manners don’t get you respect around here. Second lesson, get on the crew’s good side without heartfelt apologies. With how long you’ve been hiding, I hope you know your way around – ‘cause your first chore is to swab the decks.”

“Which one?” Peter questions, Yondu finally letting the squishy red crest go.

Giving his son face of jagged teeth, Yondu smirks. “ _All of them_.”

His face makes the Centaurian’s day.

 


End file.
